Despite All Logic and Reason
by ShadowCrest
Summary: When a Missing Person's case reveals something too terrible for words, the police are left staggering to make sense of things, but then the only survivor, Alya Yvonne screamed Moriarty's name. Sherlock will do whatever he needs to track down and put an end to the madman for good, and Alya holds the key. Weekly updates; MATURE CONTENT; after-torture Sherlock/OC fluff.
1. Darkest of Secrets

I'll offer one final warning: this is a very dark story. There is torture, rape, and murder in the most brutal of definitions. With that being said, I have over 30k words already written and the entire story already outlined, so there is little chance of it going unfinished. I welcome all comments. Enjoy and I'll see you again next Thursday.

* * *

Darkest of Secrets

It was just a walk. Harmless. A brief outing to get some air in my lungs. Why? I didn't see the van. With the music chiming happily in my ears, I didn't hear the door open. I didn't hear the men storm around me. I didn't notice them until they grabbed my arms and wrenched me into the trunk; until they shoved a cloth in my mouth to silence my scream; until it was already too late. And that song continued to play mockingly in my ears.

* * *

"You may want to call an ambulance, John." Sherlock said without looking back at his friend.

"What's happened?" He asked, quickly returning to the detective's side. And he froze.

"She's alive, but I doubt that'll be the case much longer without proper care." He didn't move as John darted around him. Immediately, he reached for her neck to feel for a pulse, but, before he'd more than brushed her skin, the woman's eyes snapped open. And he felt fear. A medic, hardened by war, yet, the instant he saw the wild, animalistic hatred in those nearly emerald eyes, such a surge of pure, instinctual panic struck him, that, without conscious thought, he flung himself away, only barely evading her flailing leg.

Taken aback by the sudden attack, John stumbled back, gaping at the woman he'd believe to be nearly dead only seconds prior. Lips pulled back in a scowl, shoulders hunched forward despite how the left seemed wrong – dislocated, he guessed – she rose to her feet and took a few steps back. He knew the effort it must have taken to merely open her eyes, but to stand – to attack… and yet, there was no delay in her movements as she seemed to glide over the stained concrete, the rattle of her shackles the only noise about her.

As sudden as it had come, consciousness fled the woman. With no more warning than a brief narrowing of those piercing eyes, her body collapsed. John only just managed to catch her, and quickly laid her down, for a moment still frozen in shock.

"An ambulance, John?" Sherlock reminded, crouching beside them. He let out a small noise in affirmation and stood, retrieving his phone.

Sherlock wasted no time for such remedial routines John held as gospel. Instead, he immediately reached for the shackles binding her wrists and ankles, quickly working them open with the kit in his jacket. He kept his eyes carefully trained on his work, all but ignoring her barren form until she was free.

"Lestrade's on his way." John stated, an unnerving detachment in his voice. Sherlock understood the man's distress at the woman's condition – he wasn't sure there was an inch of flesh void of injury and gore on her – but now wasn't the time for it. He quickly shuffled out of his coat and laid it over her.

"Stay with her." He instructed as he stood and started out of the room.

"Where are you going?" He asked too quickly.

"I doubt there'll be anything left behind, but I need to check for other survivors, as well as anything that might reveal who's behind this." He replied quickly as he left.

John looked down at the barely moving form. He could hear the chilling rattle of her uneven breaths, couldn't help but smell the blood and filth coating her skin. How long had she been like this? What would it take for a woman – any human, at that – to harbor such hatred? He looked at the tangled locks of hair roughly tied back at the base of her neck, how a handful of locks disobediently settled on her cheek. She was beautiful once…

"Damn it." He cursed to himself, seething quietly at the knowledge that men had done this. Human beings had taken one of their own and destroyed her in a way so brutal he wanted to be sick.

"I can hear the sirens." Sherlock said as he returned. John nodded, noting with discomfort the tension in his friend's expression. He was almost afraid to ask.

"Any more survivors?" Sherlock hesitated before answering.

"No." John couldn't bring himself to ask how many dead he'd found. "Best give them a warning before they come in here." He advised, gaze locked on the stone walls before them. John nodded in silence and headed out to meet them.

Once John was gone, Sherlock let his eyes fall back to the barely breathing woman beneath his coat. How old? Twenty-eight? Twenty-nine at the most, attributing much of the wear on her face to the horrors she'd been subjected to here. Much of the blood had come from the countless wounds marring her body, but not all. Would it match any of the dozen dead in the neighboring cells? While he was sure some would, he hoped some might belong to whoever could be held responsible for this.

Not for the first time, he wished he could still his frantically working mind, if only that he wouldn't have to replay her torture over and over in his head. There were simply too many wounds, old and new, to establish any reliable timeline. He stepped back as the rumbling of a gurney raced toward them.

The medics, a young woman, blond hair tied back professionally and an older man with a light grey goatee, spared him no more than a fleeting glance before rushing past him. He heard the ruffle of his coat being tossed aside; and he heard the simultaneous gasps as both froze in shock. John hadn't given a thorough enough description.

"I know." The doctor murmured. "Let's get her out of here." They worked in silence. Sherlock didn't watch. He didn't want to. How many times had he briefly noted the disappearances? Spared only fleeting ponderings as to a possible connection? If he had given it even a second of his full attention, surely there wouldn't be a slew dead and one surely wishing for the same. Such thoughts wouldn't help them now, though. He merely wanted to find the one responsible and see them to proper retribution.

Strides long and slow, he left the dilapidated storage, the medics mere seconds behind him. Lestrade would surely be waiting for a full overview of what awaited them within. Now wasn't a moment in which he would relish the opportunity to overshadow those around him. No; he would keep matters brief and take his leave. There was too much work to be done for him to deal with the hindered minds of those charged with solving the blood-chilling dealings they'd stumbled upon.

"Easy, hon; we're going to help you." The blonde's voice held a note of panic, instantly catching Sherlock's attention. The woman was struggling, rage clearly powering her limbs as she nearly overthrew both John and the EMT as the other medic darted into the ambulance. One of Lestrade's men raced over to help, but her movements grew frantic the instant he neared. Panic. She was near panic at the mere sight of the uniform.

Finally, the medic with the goatee returned from the ambulance, syringe in hand. She seemed not to notice as he approached her, gaze locked on the policemen even as the older man quickly injected what he assumed to be a tranquilizer into her arm. Within seconds, she began to still, and the uniformed man quickly retreated. Vainly fighting to stave off the effects of the sedative, she just managed to turn away. But then her body went stiff.

"Moriarty!" Instantly, Sherlock's blood ran cold; heart racing. She'd nearly growled it as she shouted. Both he and John instantly looked in the direction she'd appeared to see him, but there was nothing. Still, after only a second's pause, both shot forward. They were surrounded by a ghost town of ancient mills and warehouses. Had he ducked behind a corner? It couldn't really be _him_, though. Moriarty was dead… He'd seen the bullet tear through his skull.


	2. The Illusion of Control

As promised, Chapter 2. I'd hoped to get it up earlier today, but you know how life happens. Still, though, we're on track for weekly updates. Also, this is a nice long one - originally 2 chapters, but I didn't was Chap. 2 to be under 1000 words (I hate short chapters). Anyways, enjoy and I'll see yah next week!

* * *

The Illusion of Control

"Thirty-seven females ranging from ages thirteen to forty-six. All brutally raped, tortured, and murdered." Lestrade's face was impossibly pale as he said this. "Labs are still working on the blood samples from what we're guessing to be fighting pits, but they've already confirmed at least a dozen that don't match any of the bodies from the warehouse."

Sherlock said nothing as the lawman voiced facts he already knew, or had presumed based on the evidence before him. John sat in silence across from Lestrade's desk while he stood gazing idly out the window. How could so many victims have gone unnoticed for so long? He'd noticed several ethnicities among the dead, but had only given them minimal attention in his search for additional survivors.

"Have any been identified?" He asked blankly.

"We've run fingerprints and dental records – as much as we could anyway – but only one showed up: Abigail Dunken. Her parents reported her missing four months ago when she didn't come home from school. She"

"Run their prints again through foreign registries." Sherlock interrupted. He'd heard about Abigail Dunken. Good grades, well liked. Anything could have caused her to leave home. Boring. When he'd heard about the disappearance, he'd thought it boring and dismissed it, righting her absence off as a simple cry for attention or escape from the suffocating expectations of over controlling parents. It was anything but boring now…

Lestrade had to visibly restrain himself from snapping at the younger man. Now more than ever, he wanted this solved. Despite how the 'consulting detective' grated on him, how his cold detachment felt entirely too impassive in light of the multitude of dead they spoke of, the promise of finding and bringing to justice those responsible more than warranted tolerance now more than ever.

"I'll get tech on it." He muttered in response.

"What about the other girl?" John finally asked, voice still threatening to waver. Both men turned their attention to the veteran. "The one that was still alive." He spoke only just above a whisper, hands clasped tightly together, knuckle grinding against his chin.

"Alya Yvonne." Lestrade answered, voice noticeably dropping several decibels. "She's been missing over three years." He went quiet a moment, still taken aback by the very real weight his statement held. Three years. For three years the women had been held captive by the monsters responsible for all of this. "Her parents went missing a month after reporting her disappearance. She was attending school in London. No siblings or other close family members." He'd expected Sherlock to interrupt him, but the detective merely listened as he reported the few facts he knew about the survivor. "She's twenty-six. Docs are still working on her. They don't have much hope for her." He admitted quietly.

"John." Sherlock called, already walking quickly toward the doors. The veteran hesitated briefly, thoughts stunted still from the shock of it all, but, with a sharp breath, started after the man, leaving Lestrade at his desk amongst the mounds of paperwork still awaiting his attention.

The lawman reached only briefly toward a manila folder before pausing. Alya had called out Moriarty's name. Sherlock's history with the man was too-well known, but, surely he wouldn't attack the girl for information. After the trauma she'd endured, the last thing she needed was Sherlock's manipulative, berating interrogation. He wouldn't…

Nearly throwing the file back down, Lestrade snatched his coat and raced after them.

* * *

"She's been in the hospital for three days, Sherlock!" It was a quiet threat, the way John spoke. "They won't even let you near her!" After he'd given the driver instructions to take them to the hospital, Sherlock had said nothing more, allowing John to fill the silence with warnings and non-too empty threats as to his manner of interacting with the girl. "She needs time to recover, to deal with what's"

"And while she lays there trying to understand why what was done to her was done her, the facts within her mind stagnate and erode, and countless other women are forced to endure what she's only barely survived." Sherlock finally snapped. John jaw suddenly tensed, teeth clicking together in an attempt to still his balled fists.

"That doesn't give you the right to make things harder for her." He nearly growled.

"_If_ she is awake and _if_ she is lucid, she'll be in no state to fabricate any lies. Right now she is still entirely raw. What reason would she have to lie?" He spoke slowly and carefully to ensure John fully understood. "More than anyone else, right now, whatever she says can be believed to be truth. All I have to do is ask the right questions."

He wanted to argue. He wanted to keep the woman as far from Sherlock as he possibly could, to protect her from the mental strain that always accompanied even the briefest of interactions with him. But he couldn't. Much as he feared for the girl, he knew what Sherlock said was true. She was their best chance at solving this.

"Just… be gentle." He finally said, turning his gaze away.

"I will." Sherlock spoke with a softness that took John by complete surprise, and, with a weary resolution, the veteran resigned himself to do whatever was needed to ensure Sherlock's success.

* * *

I didn't hear their voices; spared no thought to the lies pouring from their lips. I wasted no time to baby the wounds throbbing over my body or note the bandages covering my form beneath the loosely fitting hospital gown. Even as I struggled to force back the darkness, I screamed as I fought. Anything I could grasp was a weapon. Anyone I could reach was an enemy. And so I fought.

I couldn't count how many there were – I couldn't clear my vision enough to separate the colors enough to see their faces. Didn't matter. As long as I could still draw air into my burning lungs, I would fight. I would survive.

A hand tightened around my upper arm. With a feral shout, I rounded on him, fist rocketing toward his face, but something caught my wrist almost the instant I moved to strike him. Kicking off of from the chilled tile floor, I wrenched my new assailant toward me as I wrapped my legs around his neck. Shouts of terror echoed through the room as I wrenched him down, bringing the other man with us.

Not fast enough. I wasn't fast enough. The instant I was on the ground, they were on me. Hands and arms trapping me down. I shrieked and roared as I flailed against them, desperate for even the slightest leverage, but there were just too many.

I didn't feel the mattress beneath me. There was only panic. Padded leather encircled my wrists. My ankles. In terror, I pulled against them, felt the restraints dig into my ruined flesh, heard the bed to which I had been tied rock with my relentless struggle, but it was useless. I knew it was useless. I had been too slow. As the needle pricked my arm and the darkness stole through my veins slowly suffocating me, I knew I had lost.

* * *

Voices. Shouting. With a sluggish reluctance, I fought my way to consciousness. I felt the terror, but found myself unable to fully understand it. My eyes slowly opened, chest jerking with rapid breaths as the colors churned before me. Focus… focus! That blessed adrenaline seeped from my chest, and, with a hard blink, I managed to see.

I knew this place. I recognized the sterile scent of alcohol and the blinding white walls and floors. A hospital? An ensemble of men and women dressed in scrubs stood around two men in more casual attire: one tall concealed behind a long coat while the shorter one wore a simple tan jacket and blue jeans. The taller of the two was speaking, his deep voice berating the staff with a harshness that sent another surge of adrenaline through me, while the other trailed closely behind.

Too much… For what seemed only a second, my eyes closed against the sudden dizziness that overtook me. The colors once against melded together and I saw only a dark figure before me. Straining, I vaguely realized it was the taller man. In panic, my eyes snapped open. Barely a yard stood between us.

"This woman was bound and tortured for three years, and you think it best to _restrain_ her?!" He nearly shouted, spinning to see the downturned eyes of all present. With a grunt of disgust, he turned his back to them and wrenched at the bindings on my left wrist. Instantly, I jerked back, failing muscles trembling against the leash. Mind lost amidst the haze and slur from the drugs, I strained pitifully to grasp any shred of clarity, but knew only that I was still trapped, and here there were men. Men who shouted. Men who could cause hurt – would cause hurt.

"We had no choice!" One of the female staff members rebuked. "She's a danger – put two orderlies in critical. You've got to leave her!"

"If you're not going to listen, then don't bother speaking." He growled. "She was _tortured_ for three _years_. Pumping her full of drugs, tying her down – why on Earth would she think you lot are any better than the ones who did this to her?" Finally, the strap slipped loose. I felt the cushioned leather caress my ruined flesh as it fell; felt the freedom from that simple act. Fools. They should know better by now than to underestimate me.

Were the staff members shouting? Had the man's friend reached behind him to grasp a gun? Too slow. With an inhuman snarl, I lunged at him. My still ensnared wrist tore against the remaining strap, but it didn't matter. My free hand darted up around his head, grasping a fistful of dark hair at the base of his skull, and wrenched his head down against the railing of the hospital bed, stunning him just long enough to snake my arm around his throat.

He didn't struggle… Why didn't he struggle?

"It's alright." He spoke not to me, but to those around him; words thick as they choked against my hold. "Get out of here." Why didn't he beg for help?

"Sherlock." His friend called uncertainly.

"Just get everyone out of here, John. Only need a minute." He assured them. But they didn't move. "Oh, just – she's got my throat!" He practically scolded. "If you lot try anything, she would break my neck before any of you could reach me – or snap my hyoid and watch me drown on my own saliva." Did he feel the hesitation shoot through me? He spoke as though he'd planned exactly this.

"Come on." John ordered darkly, motioning for the others to leave. There was a note of impatient familiarity in the man's actions, as though some secret message had passed between them. Uncertainly, the staff made their way out of the room, followed lastly by John who shot the man an almost threatening glare before closing the door behind him.

"There." Sherlock stated victoriously. "Now, I've only got a minute, how do you know Moriarty?" My entire body tensed, drawing a small grunt from him as my arm tightened. "Right." The word was scratchy, but he still didn't try to pull away. "No fondness – that makes this easier. Moriarty made a fool of me." He said bluntly. "Which, I assure you, is no minor thing. I turned it around on him, of course, but he still got away." Something about him went deathly silent. "If Moriarty is not stopped, we'll have far worse things to worry over than a cheap shot at my pride, or a slave-ring." He warned. I couldn't doubt him… Hearing the deep-seated hatred only touching the whisper passing his lips, I couldn't doubt him.

"You have information on Moriarty that might lead to his capture. Now, two choices: you can either incapacitate me, at which point you might have just enough time to free your other wrist before the half dozen men and woman waiting just beyond that door storm in here, subdue you, and send you to the nuthouse, or," he paused shifting just enough to meet my gaze, "you can let me get you out of here so we can take Moriarty down."

I didn't move. I couldn't. Had he pulled away, I wouldn't have been able to hold him, but he didn't. Two choices. Both harbored the potential to destroy me. But he was right. If I fought now… I couldn't take them all. And then they would tie me down again; lock me in a room and push drug after drug into me with the claim that they would help, contain me until the shell of my ruined body finally died. There was little in the way of an alternate ending if I fought now.

But if I went with him… I had no way of knowing what would happen then – I may wind up back in the ring, maybe it would be worse. There was a chance, though, that it may be better. If nothing else, that route had a chance; gave me some sliver of control over what might happen. Even if it was only an illusion of control, it was something.

Eyes boring into his, searching for the slightest warning, I pulled my arm away from him. He gave a small nod before turning to my ankles. My fingers trembled so violently, I'd only just finished releasing my right hand by the time he'd undone both of my legs. Without awaiting his instruction, I swung my legs over the side of the bed.

"You shouldn't stand. I'll get a-" Ignoring him entirely, I slipped off the cot, lips tensed into a fine line to fight back the scowl as muscle and skin and bone screamed against use. "You'll injure yourself further – delay your recovery." He warned, but, however well it was hidden, there was a touch of admiration. And it sickened me. I'd fought – killed in worse shape than this. Without a word, I strode to the door. He opened it and followed me out, a mere half-stride behind me.

"We'll be off then." He informed the staff. I said nothing as I moved through the sea of frightened faces. I felt my body poise itself – shoulders bunched slightly, rolling with each stride, loose and ready to meet an assault, steps nearly gliding over the sterile tile floor, balance centered low to the ground.

"She's… she's coming with us?" His friend asked.

"Yes." Sherlock replied, offering no further explanation.

"Now, wait a minute," A man stepped quickly in front of me; short, salt-and-pepper hair, brown eyes, strong build, but unprepared for an attack. "She's a victim… and a witness!" He added meaningfully. This man alone stood between me and freedom. My fists balled, eyes locked on his even as his were locked on the man behind me. His mistake. Just before I struck, however, Sherlock quickly strode around me, placing himself purposefully between me and the newcomer. "You can't take her with you!" And I waited.

"Lestrade, this woman has information that could lead to the downfall of much more than a sex scandal." He spoke quietly, not hiding his impatience. "I'm not leaving her for this troupe of circus performers to play doctor with." He left no room for argument, and the other one – Lestrade – held his tongue a moment, mind clearly straining over options.

"If you take her with you, she's your responsibility." He warned.

"Obviously." Sherlock scoffed. Lestrade nearly scowled, straining for some valid objection, but, with a nod, stepped aside. Freedom. I told my body to move – to walk, run, crawl, anything! – but my leg caved, sending me scrambling against the wall, hands just managing to lock around the railing as I fought to regain my footing.

And something touched my shoulder. Vaguely, I heard Sherlock's shout, but it held no meaning. Touch… There was no hesitation, no warning. Holding myself up with the railing, I spun to face them, swinging my leg around with every ounce of enraged panic storming through me. I didn't see who it was – only acknowledged that the blow landed squarely on the attacker's side, slamming them into the wall before they crumbled to the floor.

"Everybody, step back!" The command sounded from immediately behind me. Instantly, I pivoted back toward them, but, upon finding those eyes, I paused. He wasn't closing in on me. He wasn't preparing for an assault. He merely stood before me, hands clasped easily behind his back, eyes locked on mine.

"Two choices. Remember?" My brows drew together as he spoke. Two choices… Body still tensed, ready for an attack, I glanced briefly back. Saw the fear in their faces. Fear of me… Not anger. No hatred. They were merely afraid. The air suddenly fled my lungs in a painful huff. _They were merely afraid_. All of them. But we'd had no choice. Scowling, my gaze fell to those sterile tiles. We'd had no choice…

"Alya?" My eyes darted back to his; Sherlock. My only way out of here. Body quaking with suddenly choppy breaths, I quickly looked away from him; forcing my mind back to the present. Had to get out of here. That was my foremost priority. Can't think about the others – not now. Not here. Two choices: I could try to fight my way out of here to quickly find myself in a padded room; or I could leave with him, free of restraints and with no real way of knowing what lay before me, only that there was a chance with him. In silence, I quickly moved around him toward the elevator door.

"Alright, John?" I heard him ask. John; the man who'd come with him. Of course it had to have been him I'd struck. The staff wouldn't have risked touching me. Impatiently, I called the elevator, nearly darting inside when the doors finally parted. My hand reached for the floor panel, but paused. Where was I going? Frowning, I looked back into the hall – too conscious already of the wall of eyes watching me, studying me. But not him. He looked at me, yes, but it was different…

I said nothing as I met his eyes. The corner of his lips twitched up in the semblance of a smile for only the briefest of seconds before he moved toward me, John following quickly behind. Letting my gaze fall, I stepped back as they entered, giving him access to the controls. Within seconds, the doors hissed shut, locking the three of us away from the world, if only for the moment.

Panting. I was panting, body only just holding itself up. Even numbed from the cocktail of drugs, I could feel the steady throb as each mark of my torture screamed its presence; felt the weight of fever pulling down on me; the innate confusion and haze from blood loss. My hands remained clasped around the rails lining the elevator as it continued its steady descent.

I tried to prepare for the imminent halt, but the sudden jolt still robbed me of my balance and strength, nearly throwing me to the floor. But, for just a breath, something locked around my arm, holding me up. And then it was gone. Sherlock… he hadn't even looked at me.

"If you would be so kind as to hail us a cab, John; I don't believe she'd make it the whole trip back." He said to the man beside him.

"Right." John replied distractedly as he moved through the parting doors ahead of us. For a while longer, I didn't move, hands still locked around the rails for fear of my legs failing me if I let go.

"There's a bench just outside the front doors. I doubt it'll take long for John to find a cab, but you can rest there a moment." Nearly scowling, I forced myself to move. But my body just couldn't manage and I collapsed back against the elevator wall. Teeth grinding against each other, I quickly planted my feet beneath me, but couldn't risk losing the support as I leaned heavily against the railing.

"Hold on to me." He murmured softly after several seconds. Before I could conjure some meaning to his words, his arm slipped around mine, gently supporting me. With a gasp, I started to shy away, but his quiet voice cut through my panic. "Two choices." And I froze. "You can't walk on your own. Either I fetch a wheelchair, or you can hold on to me." Touch… I looked past the elevators doors to the lobby, and, beyond that, the main entrance. Not weak… I can still fight… I can still… My leg trembled and caved, but I didn't fall. He didn't let me fall. Damn it… Damn it!

Without meeting his eyes, my hand darted from the rail to his arm. Clinging to him, I struggled to regain some measure of strength in my legs as I forced them to move. Could he feel how violently I trembled? Could he see the sheen of sweat coating my skin? If so, he voiced no note of it. He said nothing as we steadily crossed the room.

I don't think I've ever had such an appreciation for automatic doors, nor the simple wonder of a concrete bench as I collapsed onto the hard seat the instant it was within reach, body shaking with each panted breath. Sherlock sat calmly beside me, arm still clutched between mine. Couldn't release him. If I did, I would surely fall. I would lose my final hold on consciousness and tumble into the darkness if I let go.

"Here's the cab." He informed, voice low so as not to startle me. I wanted to sob, to beg for just a moment more of rest, but I hinted toward nothing of the sort as I struggled to my feet. He quickly stood, gently pulling me with him. Without a word, he paused, granting me several precious seconds to catch my breath. Only when I forced my attention to the vehicle awaiting us just a dozen strides away did he move. I couldn't gather the strength of mind to so much as count my steps as I fought my ailing limbs for each step. There was only the monotonous, unsteady stagger of movements as we neared it, John standing beside the open door.

I more fell into the car than sat. Sherlock easily guided my near limp body in before taking the seat beside me. Vaguely, I heard John read an address to the driver. The loud bang of the door slamming shut jolted through me. In a flare of panic, I shot up, straining against the seatbelt.

"Just the door." Sherlock stated quietly, instantly catching my full attention. Breathing hard, I held his gaze a while longer, but, when the car pulled forward, what glimmer of balance I had failed. My hold tightened to catch myself, still clutching what I vaguely realized was his arm. He said nothing as I collapsed against him, offered no resistance. I vainly tried to move back, to distance myself from him, but… he was warm…


	3. Some Stains Never Fade

I sincerely apologize for the delay! I had some family stuff to take care of... In way of apology, however, I will give you all another chapter Monday before continuing with the promise of updates every Thursday!

* * *

Some Stains Never Fade

The woman briefly tried to pull away, but managed only to shift slightly before going limp against him, arms still locked desperately around his. He would have to be careful when he woke her, lest she fly into another panic.

"She'll be staying a while, then?" John asked from the back seat, finally broaching the many blatant notes of concern for bringing the woman into Mrs. Hudson's home.

"Yes." Sherlock answered quickly.

"Where?" John pressed.

"My room is larger and nearer the bathroom. Obviously, she'll stay there." He replied absently.

"And you'll…"

"I'll sleep on the couch a while, though I suspect there'll be little sleeping for the next few nights until she settles in." He muttered.

"And this: bringing her with us – you really think that's necessary?" John questioned, choosing to avoid the touchy subject of his still empty room. Sherlock drew a deep breath before answering.

"She might know something. Had I left her there, she would have shut herself off completely as a result of the hospital's _policies_." He spat. "Then I wouldn't be able to get anything out of her. Or she would have been killed." He added, disregarding John's brief moment of alarm before continuing, "A lot of people aren't going to be happy with her escape. It likely won't be long before they try to finish the job."

"So, instead of leaving her in a police guarded hospital with twenty-four hour surveillance, you're bringing her home." John clarified.

"You saw how she reacted when one of Lestrade's lieutenants tried to touch her." He retorted. The woman shifted slightly at his raised voice, and his gaze immediately darted back to her, consciously relaxing so as not to wake her. Instantly, she quieted again and he returned his attention to John.

"She reacted violently toward you and the medics, but when she saw him – that was panic." He explained quietly. "Meaning there are men in uniform within the hierarchy of the slave ring." John's expression instantly darkened. He had noticed the change in the woman's demeanor, but hadn't reached that conclusion as to why.

"Just one more question." John prompted, "How are we getting her up the stairs?" Sherlock admittedly cringed slightly at the answer.

"She'll have to walk up them." He answered. "If we try to carry her, it would likely result in her panicking and lashing out, but she should be fine with just the one story."

* * *

_Alya_. What was that? _Ms. Yvonne, I need you to wake_ _up_. A voice. Did I know that voice? _Alya_. Something touched my arm and panic instantly seized me. With a gasp, my eyes flew open. Men. I flung myself from them, back slamming into the unyielding surface behind me. I didn't hear them as my gaze darted around me. A cage? I was in one of their cages. And they'd come to fetch me again; to make me fight. No, I wouldn't let them.

Scowling, I charged. The one before me jumped back, holding his hands up as his lips continued to form words I couldn't understand. I only made it as far as the edge of what I vaguely realized was a seat before the earth dipped around me. Dragging raspy breaths into my lungs, I struggled to fight back the darkness threatening to overtake me. No! Don't fall asleep! Can't… I can't let them take me!

"Two choices, remember?" Those words cut through the haze of fever and fear. For just a moment, I paused, vision clearing just enough to see him. Those eyes. I remembered those eyes; the impossible dance of light blues and greens around the golden center, and, just over his right iris, a single island of hazel. "Let me help you." He spoke so softly, I almost didn't hear him. Help. He was…

* * *

Sherlock just managed to catch her as she suddenly went limp, pulling her carefully from the cab. Her eyes occasionally flicked open, limbs weakly flinching away, but she was too far gone to hold any rational thought.

"Well, now what?" John asked as Sherlock kneeled on the concrete holding the mostly unconscious woman against him.

"I suppose we'll have to try to carry her." He replied impatiently. John let out a sharp sigh before crouching beside them to take her legs.

"You're going to be the death of me, Sherlock." He grumbled as they started toward the front door.

* * *

Movement… I was moving… I didn't consciously recognize this fact, it simply _was_. My eyes were closed, body limp, and I was moving. How queer…

"Get the door." It was only when someone spoke that I understood; only then that I felt their hands. And my body revolted against their touch. Just as my eyes snapped open, I wrenched a leg from their grasp and slammed it into the man's thigh. I didn't hear his pained cry, already preparing to utilize his brief recovery to turn on the one restraining my shoulders, but his hold only tightened. With a flare of rage, I pulled hard. But I couldn't move. Panic. No… No!

Eyes wide in terror, I thrashed desperately against them. I didn't hear their soft words as they crashed against the walls as they fought to restrain me, their empty promises of safety as struggled to cart me off to the next horror show. I knew only that I had to get away. Before they locked me up again, I had to get away!

"Just put her down!" the man behind me suddenly ordered. The one holding my legs hesitated. Distracted. Now! I just managed to free one leg again and struck his chest with every ounce of my strength. The air fled him in a pained cough as he fell back, hand darting out to catch the railing.

Before I'd turned to the other, his hands were gone and I found myself fighting my legs to stand.

"–to remember." Speaking… he was speaking. "You chose to come with me instead of staying in the hospital. Remember?" Frowning, I struggled to make out his face. Familiar… there was something terribly familiar. My choice… Moriarty. He would help me get Moriarty. "We're almost there. Just hold on to me." He offered me his arm. The hospital… I remembered, but… so far away… so hard to think.

But he would help me. I remembered he would help me. Movements anything but steady, I took his arm in mine, my other hand still clutching the railing for support. I wouldn't have made it the few steps to the second floor without him, and I cursed myself for it. I wouldn't have even made it across his flat without him. By the time he opened the door and led me to a bed, I was gasping sharply, each stride nearly failing as the room spun around me. I didn't feel him help me onto the mattress; didn't feel him pull the comforter over me. The instant I was lying down, my eyes slid shut.

* * *

"Earlier, in the hospital," John started, lounging back in his amply cushioned chair, "You easily could have broken her hold."

"Obviously." Sherlock muttered without bothering to lift his head.

"Why didn't you?" John pressed.

"Think, John: what sort of dealings has she had with men over the last three years?" He asked, "Had I overpowered her, why would she have willingly come with me?" John hummed his understanding, relaxing blissfully into the padded seat, the throbbing of his bruised chest and leg nearly forgotten in his exhaustion.

"She won't be taking much of a liking to me, then." He concluded in a sigh.

"Not likely." Sherlock agreed with an airy laugh.

"How's your head, by the way?" The detective merely released a small groan, earning a chuckle from his friend. Within seconds, their rhythmic exhales filled the otherwise quiet room.

* * *

It was dark. Cold. My body trembled from it. But I could feel the grime coating my flesh. The slick crimson stain that would never wash out. My hands rubbed against each other, desperate to rid the gore from me, but it wouldn't fade. The tacky coating merely slid over the skin of my fingers, my wrist, up my arms. Consuming me.

I struggled to distance myself from it; legs kicking as though if I could run fast enough, the blood would vanish. But it wouldn't leave. My fault. It was my fault they were dead, and my hands would never be clean.

The floor suddenly vanished beneath me, and I fell. For an eternity, I fell. Screaming. Crying. I'm sorry! I'm sorry! The earth suddenly crashed against me, tearing the air from my lungs as agony surged through my body. Suffocating me. Strangling. Please, I don't want to fight anymore. Run… Run!

* * *

A desperate cry suddenly tore them from sleep, almost instantly followed by a heavy thud. Without hesitation, they threw themselves from the chairs and raced to Sherlock's room. From the light bleeding in from the hall, they saw her, curled up against the fall wall, frantically ringing her hands before her.

"Alya?" Sherlock spoke slowly, as one might to a frightened child, "Alya, can you hear me?" John waited in the doorway, hesitant to approach her after how frightened she'd been of him earlier. Sherlock stepped quickly around the bed, crouching down several feet from her.

"Her hands are bloody." He stated over his shoulder. "And with how she's shaking, I suspect her fever's gone up."

"I'll get a cloth." It wasn't until John spoke that the women shied from them, pressing herself desperately into the wall.

"Alya." Sherlock called quietly as John left the room. "You're alright now; you're in London." Her lips moved, but he couldn't hear what she was saying. "What?" He asked softly.

"Don't…" It was barely a whimper, and he had to strain to make out words. "I don't… anymore… I don't want to fight." She sobbed. "Please." His expression hardened.

"You don't have to fight." Sherlock told her. Her arms wrapped defensively around her head, as though awaiting an attack. "Alya," He called again, "You don't have to fight anymore."

"Sherlock." John called from the door, a bin of warm water with a cloth draped over the side in his hands. Sherlock took a long step back before turning to take it.

"And for the fever?" He asked. John swallowed against the uselessness of his answer.

"She needs antibiotics, but every time a nurse got an IV in, she'd rip it out the second their backs were turned." He replied under his voice. "We could try pills, but I doubt that'll go any better than an IV." Sherlock was quiet a moment in thought.

"Can you get the supplies?" John took a deep breath at the request.

"I could try to call in some favors." He speculated.

"Good." Sherlock said, quickly turning back to the nearly unconscious woman. "You should hurry – the lobby closes in twenty minutes." He added without looking back. Biting back a retort, John left, and Sherlock focused again on the woman before him. Her eyes were nearly closed, an occasional cry flittering past her lips as her body trembled.

"Alya." He slowly lowered himself down in front of her, setting the water just to the side. "Do you remember who I am?" She didn't move. "Alya." He called louder, earning a weak flinch. "Come on, Alya; I know you can hear me." He taunted slightly. "I'm going to clean your hands. Think you could avoid punching me?" He waited only seconds before letting out a heavy sigh.

Readying himself for her likely panic, he reached for her arm. The instant his skin touched hers, she tensed, eyes darting to his, fists locking into tight balls.

"Wait." He said softly, releasing her. She paused, body shifting unsteadily. "Two choices, remember?" Her frown deepened. "You can fight me; or you can let me help you. You can help me get Moriarty." Her tremble intensified at the sound of his name, breaths growing ragged. He paused a moment, giving her time to place meaning to his words before pressing.

"Will you let me help you?" Her eyes flew back to his, movements obviously dulled. He held her gaze in silence as she studied him. Finally, she nodded. He flashed her a quick smile before dipping the cloth in the warm water and reaching for her. She pulled away briefly, but forced herself still as he gently pulled the stained limb toward him. He said nothing as he drew the cloth over her skin. She shuddered at the heat radiating from it, muscles involuntarily flinching back before settling against him.

In silence, he carefully wiped the blood from her hands, taking care around the torn scab on her inner wrist. It wasn't long before the woman began to fade, but he did nothing to stop it until he'd removed the last smear of red from her.

"Alright, we've got to get you back to bed." Still, his hushed words held a softness to them. Her eyes flicked open for only a fleeting second before sliding back down. "Alya?" No response. He let out a sigh and set the cloth down. There was always the option to simply leave her…

Steeling himself for the likely assault, he wrapped one arm around her shoulders. She didn't move. He slipped his other arm under her knees. Still no response. Slowly, he pulled her to his chest. Nothing. And stood. She seemed weightless – helpless – as he held her; as she slept. Moving carefully so he wouldn't jar her, Sherlock returned the woman to his bed.

Just as she touched the mattress, her eyes fluttered open and he froze. She didn't fight him. She didn't even tense. Hidden in the perfect silence around them, she merely looked at him; turned her piercing green eyes to his. How long did she hold his gaze? Seconds? Minutes? Still, he didn't move. Why? For fear of startling her? That she would strike him if she realized how he held her? That it would shatter what sliver of trust she had developed for him? Maybe. But, at that moment, he couldn't quantify it. There was merely an unspoken need for stillness.

With a sigh, her eyes slid back together, but, as she slipped back to sleep, her body curled into him, her cheek resting lightly on his chest. Sherlock hesitated a moment longer, at a loss as to why she had responded as she did – more so as to how he should respond.

Dismissing it, he set her gently upon his bed, setting only the sheet over her still shivering form. They had to get the fever down… With a final glance to confirm Alya was unconscious, Sherlock retrieved the bin. He would have to convince her of the need for medication, but how?

* * *

Just to minimize the confusion, I'm jumping from first person (Alya) to third person frequently between scenes. Sorry again for being late. I'll have Chapter 4 up by Monday, and 5 by Thursday on schedule!


	4. The Sum of Who We Are

As promised, an extra chapter this week per last week's tardiness. Thanks so much shortstakk7932 for this story's very first comment! I'll make a note on chap. 1 regard my switching between POVs.

* * *

The Sum of Who We Are

It was well over an hour before John returned, carrying several overstuffed bags into the kitchen. Sherlock watched in silence as he prepared a saline bag and the antibiotics.

"Have you figured out how we're going to keep this in her, yet?" John asked as he set out the needle and tubing.

"I'll simply explain it to her." John paused, frowning at the equipment in hand before turning back to his friend.

"'Explain it to her'?" he asked, "That's your plan?"

"It's worked well enough thus far." Sherlock replied. A rebuke instantly shot to his lips, but John held his tongue, too weary to fall into a hopeless argument he knew he would lose.

"If she punches me, I will hold you responsible." He warned, but Sherlock merely flashed him a smile.

* * *

"Alya." Sherlock called softly. The trembling figure hidden beneath his pale comforter gave no response. "Alya." He called again. A pained shiver swept through her. John's saw clenched in sympathy. He'd wanted to give her some painkillers as well, but feared how they would exasperate her already unstable mental state.

Drawing a deep breath, Sherlock approached the bed, slowly setting his hand against her shoulder. Instantly, she flinched away, a loud gasp echoing around them. But she froze. Those eyes. She couldn't think, couldn't remember why, but she knew those eyes.

"Alya, we've brought you medicine." Sherlock explained quietly. Her brows drew together in confusion. "For your fever." He added, but it was clear she couldn't understand. He sighed before trying a different approached.

"I'm going to help you, alright?" He waited several seconds while she struggled to understand what he'd said, but, finally, she nodded. "Good; now, it's very important you don't touch this, okay?" Again, he waited until she nodded before motioning for John to come in, but, the instant he came into her line of sight, her body tensed.

"Alya." Sherlock called, pleased that her gaze instantly returned to his. "He's going to help. He's got to give you a shot. Remember, you have to leave it alone, right?" Fear shot over her face as she looked at him. "You're alright." He added quietly. She held his gaze a while longer before exhaustion pulled her back into an empty sleep.

"Why, Sherlock; that was… nice." John almost mocked, but shot him an approving smile when the detective glared at him.

"I'll stay in here tonight." He said with a small measure of reluctance as the medic began setting up the IV.

"I can't see that as being a wise idea." John replied absently, attention focused on the needle as he felt carefully for a vein, the difficulty of which only proved her desperate need for fluids.

"The chances of her understanding my instructions are about as good as Lestraude solving this on his own." He mumbled. "I'll bring my chair in here for the night. With any luck, I'll catch her before she rips it out." With a satisfied sigh, John unplugged the IV bag and stepped back.

"I'll see if Mrs. Hudson will make her some stew in the morning. She won't be able to eat much solid food for a while." He said, hands settling on his hips. "Until then, I'm going to bed. Good luck." He added more mockingly than Sherlock felt was necessary. The detective stood before his bed a while longer. When she'd looked up at him, when he'd seen the fear in her eyes… he'd felt…

Disregarding it, he turned to retrieve his chair. It would be a long night.

* * *

A soft light filled the room. The terrible cold had retreated, if only for the moment, but I was grateful for it. Absently, I scratched at an annoying tug on the back of my right hand, and paused. There was something… I looked down to see an IV secured with an overabundance of tape. Drugs…

"It's medicine." My eyes darted up at the voice, surprised to see the tall man from earlier sitting in a chair beside the bed. "Don't touch." He held his hands harmlessly before him, eyes trained on me. Not supposed to touch it… I remembered.

"Sh…" My lungs struggled with the effort of contorting the air into sound, but I knew his name. "Sh-Sherlock."

"That's right." He spoke so quietly, as though I might flee at any moment and he had no desire to deal with such an annoyance. This realization made me scoff. He frowned slightly, studying me with unabashed absolution.

"What do you see?" I whispered, eyes boring into his. He gave me a peculiar look, unsure how to interpret my question. "What do you think you're looking at?" It wasn't malicious the way I asked it, merely inquisitive. I wanted to know how he saw me. Was I a threat? A tragedy? Or was I merely an inconvenient necessity?

"You're a killer." My entire body tensed, unable to turn away from him as my blood ran cold. "You've got the same look in your eyes as a soldier who's seen too much death; a regret that's unique to taking too many lives." He let his words fade as he watched me, as though only just realizing the unbearable hurt his words had caused. Still, I couldn't turn away from him.

"What else?" I barely breathed the words. He hesitated. "What else?!" I demanded with something like a growl.

"You were raped – tortured – for so long… And now you're terrified you'll never be able to touch someone again, that no one will ever want to touch you." There was something of an apology in the way he spoke. But it wasn't enough. How could it be enough? Scowling, I tore my gaze away from his, enraged at how the tears burned my eyes, choking me as they balled in my throat.

"Get out."

I'd asked.

"Alya"

"Get out!" Why had I asked? I couldn't look at him as he left the room. I couldn't… Why? Why did I ask him what I already knew? Why had he answered as he had? I scoffed at my own question. How had he answered? Truthfully? Would I hold his honesty against him?

"Give her a moment." Sherlock's voice sounded quietly from beyond the door.

"It'll get cold." Only vaguely, I remembered the voice. John.

"I don't think she'll want to see me again so soon." Sherlock admitted, immediately earning something of a groan from his friend.

"What did you do?" He nearly scolded, but received no answer. "Fine, then I'll give it to her."

"Because that's gone so well." Sherlock mumbled. "Just give it here." I listened in silence to the approaching footsteps. Just beyond the door, he stopped. I began to wonder if he would change his mind ad turn back, but a soft tapping sounded against the door.

"Alya?" He called. I didn't reply. I couldn't. Slowly, the door opened. But he didn't walk in. Expression blank, I looked at him, saw the guilt, the sadness in his eyes. Only then did I realize I was crying; tears streaming soundlessly down my cheeks.

"I'm sorry." He murmured, closing the door behind him. I shook my head and turned away from him; I had to.

"You said nothing I didn't already know." I replied, surprised at how steady my voice proved to be.

"Nonetheless."

"Where am I?" I asked, as though he hadn't spoken.

"London." He returned to his chair. "More specifically, this is my flat."

"Why?" I asked, finally convincing myself to look back at him. "You know what I am: what I've done – what's been done to me. Why take someone like that into your home?"

"To ensure Moriarty doesn't get to you." I couldn't hold back the flinch as he spoke _his_ name. "I know this is difficult, but you are our best lead." He spoke almost hesitantly, letting guilt touch his words.

"Why you?" I breathed, unable yet to fully speak. "What makes you think you can find-" My breath left in a shudder as I fought back the panic from the mere memory of him, the sick anticipation in his eyes.

"He and I go back a long ways." He admitted stiffly. "But there is no one more qualified than I am to find him." I couldn't help but scoff. "I'm a consulting detective. If you'd like, I've countless crimes and mysteries we can review that I've solved for the police; or you can simply trust that I, Sherlock Holmes, will find him."

Everything stopped. The air fled my lungs and I felt the panicked throngs of suffocation. Adrenaline poured relentless from my suddenly racing heart forcing battery acid through my veins. _Sherlock Holmes_. That voice. _Tell me_- I couldn't forget that voice. _What does he love? _He'd smiled. _What does he fear?_ It was my blood marring his too-perfect skin. _Just tell me and all of this stops. Tell me- Tell me- Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes._

I hadn't realized I was screaming. Arms locked around my head, clawed hands clutching my ears, I was screaming. Just make it stop. How I'd cried… Just kill me! Kill me kill me kill me. Please. I'd begged for it. Please… please…

* * *

Sherlock stood helpless before the screaming woman as John rushed in. Any other time, he would have relished the utter confusion on the detective's face, but only the absolute terror permeating the woman's cry mattered.

"What happened?!" He demanded. Frowning, mouth ajar, Sherlock seemed to battle with several replies before managing only to shake his head. Cursing, the doctor retreated to what he knew, but his knowledge of physical ailments would offer no reprieve to her panic.

"Alya!" He called, leaning over her. "Alya, you're alright, no one's going to hurt you!" Gently, he touched her shoulder, but she flew back as though he'd struck her. The perfect fear overwhelming her gave even the medic pause. "She doesn't trust _me_, Sherlock; _you've_ got to help her!" he ordered, not trying to hide his annoyance that the man still stood rooted before his chair. Horror briefly lit in the detective's eyes before he forced himself to look at the woman.

Finally, he moved, kneeling slowly before her. The scream failed her, but her choked gasps wheezed almost painfully around them. John had never seen a panic so absolute before. Even in times of war, he wasn't sure anything could compare. She was seconds from going into shock, unless Sherlock… Damn it. Intent on finding some form of antipsychotic or sedative or _something_, John fled the room.

* * *

"Alya." He whispered so quietly, he wasn't sure she'd hear him. But he couldn't manage anything more. Merely seeing the terror cursing through her left him near shaking. And _he_ had to help. With his inability to sympathize the most innate human emotion, he had to help her.

"Alya, I need you to listen to me." He leaned as close to her as he dared. "It's not real. Those memories – those fears – it's over." Had her tremble eased, if only slightly? "It's not real." A heavy breath left her lips in choppy flurries. Had she tried to speak?

"Alya?"

"It's you." She sobbed. Unrestrained, she sobbed. "It's you! He wanted you!" In shock, Sherlock stumbled back. It seemed hours before John returned, but he knew only seconds separated her cry from the medic's return.

Without a word, John injected something into the IV, and, almost instantly, the woman went limp. He quickly checked her pulse before turning to the still gaping detective.

"What the hell was that?!" he demanded, breathing heavily.


	5. The Scent of Tea

Just a head's up: there's quite a bit of changing between POVs. Much love for the comment, Scarlett!

* * *

The Scent of Tea

Sherlock hadn't been able to give any form of an answer to his friend. Mind churning, he merely fled the room with a quick, "I need to think."

_It's you! He wanted you!_ Sherlock was too aware of how Moriarty had tried to play Mycroft for information about him, but he hadn't thought the man would seek out his secrets through others as well. Alya Yvonne. Alya Yvonne. He knew that name. Why did he know that name?!

He suddenly went still. Alya Yvonne. Daughter of Maria and Jeremiah Yvonne. How long ago had it been? Four years. Had it been only weeks since they'd met that she'd been taken? He remembered. It was autumn when her mother had called on him. She hadn't heard from her husband in two weeks and the police had exhausted their final lead. It had taken him a matter of hours to discover his gambling debt; to track him to that rundown hostel.

"I'm sorry." He'd cried as he chambered the bullet. Regardless how his hand trembled, at that distance there was little Sherlock could have done. But then he was shoved aside.

"Father!" There had been no surprise in her voice, only anger. And the man broke down, sobbing his daughter's name. Without fear, she'd thrown herself between a stranger and a gun. If she hadn't, her father would have become a criminal wanted for murder. She'd saved his life. Just as impressive, she'd trailed him without his knowledge. And, within months – maybe – she was taken. Why? What had Moriarty hoped to gain from questioning a girl he'd shared no more than a dozen words with? What did she tell him?

* * *

A light tapping sounded on the door. Foggy. Still, I convinced my eyes to open as the hinges creaked slightly. Female. With a gasp, I sat sharply up, shoulders squaring.

"Oh, I'm sorry, dear; didn't mean to startle you. I'm Mrs. Hudson, the landlady." She greeted with a carefree happiness entirely inappropriate in light of the trepidation her presence gave me. "Genius as those boys can be, they're a nightmare in the kitchen." She said through a genuine smile. How strange… I couldn't remember suddenly when last I'd seen such an honest smile. "Thought you might like a nice cuppa."

I watched her carefully as she set a tray beside me on the bed; studied her. But there was nothing. No fear for the coming fight. No strayed glances as she searched me for a weapon, tried to prepare for a coming assault. Completely at ease, she settled herself comfortably in the worn green leather chair Sherlock had brought in earlier.

Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. My heart faltered. All those years; everything… it was because of him. And now I laid in his flat. Were the gods laughing?

"I wasn't sure how you took it, so I figured: best just bring it and let you make it how you like." She continued happily. "I've got a nice stew on now, but those are fresh from the market. That hospital food is rubbish. A bit of real food, and you'll be up in a wink."

With a start, I realized that she'd been speaking and looked down with something like confusion at the tray before me. A cup of dark tea, the deep aroma of which suddenly seemed to consume me, beside a bin of sugar cubes and a small cup of milk. Set almost professionally in front of the tea was a plate of biscuits, and, beside that… my mouth began to water. Fruit. Strawberries and cantaloupe and watermelon, blueberries, raspberries…

"Oh, dear… what's the matter?" The woman, Mrs. Hudson asked. Frowning, I looked back toward her in confusion. Was I crying? Yes… I was crying.

"I'd forgotten what it smelled like." I answered quietly. The landlady paused, horror briefly touching her eyes. But she said nothing as I reached for the cup. How did I like it? Sweet? Drowned with cream? I couldn't remember. But my hand automatically reached for the sugar before adding a splash of milk.

* * *

Sherlock hovered just beyond the door as Mrs. Hudson had let herself in. If Alya reacted toward her as she had to everyone else, his landlady wouldn't recover nearly as fast. But, after the threat seemed to fade, he couldn't help but hover there, just out of sight._ I'd forgotten what it smelled like._ Mrs. Hudson nearly broke down in tears, but he found himself suddenly incapable of moving; of doing anything. Smell is the sense most strongly associated with memory. What would it take to rob her of the simple smell of tea?

* * *

Without shame, I savored every piece of fruit, each sweat cookie, every drop of that rich tea. Mrs. Hudson rambled happily as I ate, but I didn't hear her. My other senses, sight, sound, touch – they ceased to matter. I knew only the impossible sweetness of the strawberries, the heartwarming scent of cream diffusing hand-in-hand with the full-bodied aroma of breakfast tea. A laugh suddenly broke me from the trance and I paused, turning my attention back to the smiling woman before me.

"Why, I don't think I've ever seen someone enjoy fruit and biscuits half as much as you." She explained. I swallowed the thick piece of melon.

"I haven't… I'm sorry; that was rude." I stammered, glancing down at the empty dishes, but her laughter only grew.

"Oh, now; none of that!" She dismissed with a wave of her hand, "I'm just thrilled you enjoyed it. Would you like some more?" My stomach churned at the thought, only just containing the mass of food I'd shoved into it.

"No," I breathed, "But thank you. That was… unbelievable." She merely grinned at me, but such sadness touched her eyes I had to look away.

"I'll just clear this up, then. Best check on that stew, anyways. I'll come back when it's done, and you can eat something really tasty." She said with a wink before retrieving the tray and shuffling from the room. "Bathroom's just through there, if you need it." She added, pointing to a nearly translucent door beside the one through which she'd come.

With a sigh, I settled back against the pillows. Food. Real food. And laughter. I felt like I'd been abducted to a foreign world, dreaming, waiting to wake up – fearing it. If it was a dream, I wanted nothing more than to sleep forever. A light knock sounded on the door and Sherlock let himself in. He stood awkwardly for several seconds after closing the door, unable to quite meet my eyes.

"I remember who you are." he finally said, still facing the back of the room. "I don't know why it's taken me so long, but I remember you." I merely watched him in silence. With a deep breath, he turned to face me. "Your father was going to kill me, but you stopped him. You saved my life, and that's why Moriarty took you." It wasn't a question, but I nodded.

"Shortly after you were taken, he led us to believe he'd killed himself, but a few months ago, he resurfaced – took over phones, televisions, anything with a screen to announce his return. I need to know everything he said to you. Everything you told him. Dates – as best you estimate." My heart shuddered. I didn't want to remember. I didn't want to think about any of it. That too familiar panic threatened to set my body trembling, but I fought it back, jaw grinding as my fists tightened around the comforter.

"I ca-" The words broke in a gasp as my shoulders jerked with unsteady breaths.

"I know it's hard, but" My stomach suddenly flipped, body convulsing with the strain of holding it back. Desperately, I threw myself from the bed.

"Alya!" he shouted, quickly following me as I raced into the bathroom, unconcerned as the IV ripped from my hand. I crashed to my knees as another heave tore through me, hands clinging to the toilet as every muscle tensed. Vaguely, I knew that Sherlock paused at the door, uncertainty evident in his stance. But I could think of nothing beyond the agony storming through me; the sudden chill permeating my limbs as I trembled; the innate panic of suffocation.

Something gently touched my shoulder. Initially, I flinched from the contact, but, as he gently held back my hair, I couldn't help but lean into his touch. Without a word, he slowly shifted his hand, movements uncertain at first as he gingerly rubbed my back. As my body convulsed against each agonizing cough, I forced myself to focus only on his touch as he laid a cool cloth on the back of my neck.

Trembling with unsteady breaths, I found myself leaning fully against him, hand shaking violently as it gripped the lapels of his jacket. Vaguely, I noticed John standing in the doorway, too-quiet words almost silently instructing Sherlock. Frowning, I weakly reached out to flush the mess away. Just as I pulled my hand back, I froze, air catching loudly in my throat. Crimson seeped from the torn mesh of tape, smeared over the skin and dripping from my middle finger.

Shaking with jagged pants, I tried desperately to scramble away from the poisoned limb, but only pushed harder against Sherlock. Moving quickly, he pulled the cloth from my neck and wrapped it around my hand, hiding the stain from me, but it was too late. The room spun; streaks of light playing on the edge of my vision as my lungs battled my panicked diaphragm for even a wisp of air.

"Alya!" His sudden shout tore my attention to him, eyes wide with fear, fists clenched, ready to fight. But then I saw those eyes. Remember. I had to remember. The hospital. He'd freed me from the hospital, freed me from the cell. Unsteadily, my gaze darted around me. Bathroom. The flat. My fist still held his jack in a death grip. Frowning, unable to meet his eyes, I released him and leaned away, back pressing against the cool wall for support as I absently held the cloth to my hand.

"I'll get her some water." John offered quietly, abandoning his readied pose. How close had he come to joining his friend for fear of what I might do? Scowling, I pushed myself up, legs wavering violently as I nearly clung to the wall.

"You shouldn't try to move yet." Sherlock instructed, already prepared to catch me should my legs fail.

"I'd like to bathe." The words left on a wispy breath, and he paused.

"I'll… fetch you a towel." He replied uncertainly, hesitating before turning away from me to rifle through a cabinet. I didn't move, didn't look at him. How long would I find myself so delicate that the mere sight of blood set me to panic? How many times would I break? If he said something as he closed the door behind him, I didn't hear it. Movements automated, only just managing to prove reliable, I moved to the tub and reached for the metal faucets.

* * *

Useless. He'd felt useless as she'd suffered, standing frozen in the doorway until John shouted at him. Movements stiff, he'd hesitantly approached her, hand hovering just over her shoulder for several seconds before making contact.

"For the love of – pull her hair back." John snapped, forcing himself to stay back – the last thing the ailing woman needed was for his presence to worsen her condition. Movements slow, Sherlock collected her long black hair, glancing briefly at John for confirmation that he was doing it right. That one look immediately dispelled John's irritation. He was trying. Despite the absolute discomfort such interaction caused him, the detective was trying.

"Rub her back – slowly." He added. Sherlock hesitated briefly, but began moving his hand awkwardly around her shoulders. "Follow her spine." John instructed. Heart pounding, he moved down the length of her back. Instantly, he felt some of the tension leave her and fell into a comfortable rhythm.

"Here." He murmured quietly, quickly retrieving a cloth and wetting it. "Lay this on her neck." Without a word, Sherlock did as instructed before continuing the slow pattern over her back. It appeared to honestly be helping. Gradually, she began moving into his touch until she was leaning weakly against him.

He wanted to pull away, uncomfortable with the contact, but forced himself to allow it. He needed her to trust him, to tell him the details of what transpired between herself and Moriarty, and he knew how delicate she was. She needed someone to lean against. If that someone was to be him, all the better – he could use that. But, when her hand latched onto his jacket, he couldn't dispute or quantify the hesitation that shot through him. Raw. He'd called her raw, but only now could he see the absolute truth to that statement.

When she reached out to flush the toilet, he'd breathed a sigh of relief. Soon, he could return her to bed and leave her to rest, free himself of the awkward contact. But then her entire body suddenly went stiff, breath choked off in a sharp gasp. Her gaze was locked on her blood smeared hand where the IV had been ripped out. He hadn't needed John's order to fling the cloth over her hand, but it was too late.

Limbs scrambling, she fought desperately to push herself away, pressing fully against him and nearly knocking him back. Automatically, Sherlock's arm wrapped around her chest, her name sounding quickly from his lips, his other hand flinging out to the wall to keep them both from falling. But she didn't respond. Wide eyes staring blindly at her hand, she merely trembled violently against him, legs still straining to distance herself from the blood. Weak. Her movements were growing weak. With a start, he realized she wasn't breathing. He needed to snap her out of it or she'd pass out.

"Alya!" Unsure if it would break her from the trance or send her further into panic, he shouted her name, pulling her around to face him. For the briefest of seconds, he thought she would strike him. But then she froze, eyes locked on his. What was that? Recognition? A sigh fled his lips as she pulled a sharp breath into her lungs, gaze jerkily traveling over the bathroom. Crimson tinted her cheeks as she pulled away from him.

Sherlock paid no mind to John as he left. Legs still quaking violently, Alya pushed herself against the wall. He doubted her body could manage any reliable movement, but she dismissed his warning. The last thing she needed was to fall and hit her head, but he could only stand at the ready to catch her. He couldn't help but note how she refused to meet his eyes; the hatred in her expression, the disgust. He'd wanted to say something, offer some manner of speech that would quell the swell of emotions, but he merely stood in silence.

"I'd like to bathe." Instantly a list of reasons arguing against her request sprang to mind. The need to take care with her wounds; the bandages she'd have to struggle to remove on her own, that she wouldn't be able to replace herself. But he couldn't say them. The absolute need screaming from her silenced him.

"I'll... fetch you a towel." He'd finally offered, retrieving one from the cabinet. Still, she didn't look at him as he set it on the counter. "We'll be just outside." He added as he left, certain that she hadn't heard him, and, if she had, that she wouldn't call even if she began bleeding out. Still, he couldn't stay there. He'd felt like he was suffocating beneath the emotional storm radiating from her.

Emotions… He knew the expected response, but actually following through with the needed actions proved far more demanding than they should have been. Doubt. He couldn't help but doubt his every movement, every word, and that was a vastly foreign entity for him. If he spoke with his standard bluntness, it could send her into a panic. If he tried to offer some measure of comforting touch, she might see him as a threat. And yet he had to speak with her and he had to touch her…

As the scream of water sounded from within, he found himself unable to move from the bathroom door, mind racing over his own inability. If he wanted the information she had, he would have to be careful.


	6. Distracted by the Afterimage

Thanks so much for all the favs! That being said, I will forewarn everyone, this story does not get happier. If what's been hinted at thus far has made you cringe, let there be no misunderstandings: it will get worse.

* * *

Distracted by the Afterimage

I found myself listening for the plunk of the idol drop slipping from the faucet into the already pink-tinted water. _Drip_. At least a half dozen seconds separated each note. _Drip_. More than enough time for a full breath. _Drip_. Inhale. Exhale. _Drip_. I watched the tiny ripple spread over the gently shifting surface until it reached me and bounced around my body, oblivious to my obtrusion. _Drip. _And I felt the constant sting of the nearly scolding water searing against my wounds. _Drip._

The bloodied bandages lay in a heap beside the tub, carelessly dropped onto the nightwear I'd found myself in. And I sat there, engulfed in the gently burning liquid, as though nothing had happened. A bath. How normal. Routine. Warm water ridding my flesh of the constant chill I would never fully rid myself of, easing the filth and gore from my body until I could pretend I was clean. Clean… I would never be able to convince myself I could ever be clean again.

I remembered how the icy blasts beat against my skin as they hosed us off before each fight; hands locked so far above out heads that we could only just hide our faces behind our elbows. Only if the winters fell so bitterly cold that the pipes froze would we be spared. Agonizingly powerful jets pounding against us until we were bruised and crying. That once represented 'clean'. Just another precursor to a fight. A warning of the horror to come. Of the blood that would be shed and the lives that would be lost for the amusement of men.

I remembered how they'd laugh. How they cheered and shouted from just beyond the arena; a measly barricade of overturned tables our only protection from the overzealous drunkards eager to get in on the action as we fought desperately to kill the other before they could kill us. You could tell how long they'd been in the fights by the look in their eyes. The newest arrivals held such terror, unable to even comprehend what they were expected to do. Then the guilt would begin to eat away any innocence they clung to. Then anger. And finally… nothing. Empty.

Was that how I'd begun to look? When those women were first thrown into the arena with me, did they see that terrifyingly vacant expression of the dead? When was it I let the guilt and horror and rage fade away? When did I cease to notice the emotion in their eyes as anything beyond a means of identifying their likely method of fighting? The degree to which they'd let panic control their limbs versus experience? When did I let myself become the empty weapon they so wanted? The real question burned far too painfully within me for me to say, yet it screamed with its own voice. Why?

Why did I let them win? Why did I cave into their demands for blood? Why did I kill for them? Why did I let the roar of the crowd control my movements? Why did I feel a pang of triumph as some innocent girl fell limp beneath my grip?! Why did I feel such a desperate need to survive, that anyone else's life became forfeit when it was me or them?! Why did I let them force me to be their little killer?! Why did they force me to fight?! Why didn't they just kill me?! Why wouldn't I just die?!

"Alya!" My eyes snapped to his, fist already clenched at my side, muscles bound and ready to strike, lips drawn in a scowl. I felt the rage distorting my face, felt the hot liquid streaming down my cheeks, the heavy gasps tearing through me as though I'd been running. And I saw the evidence of my breakdown: bloodied impressions of my fists painted the bathroom from where I'd pounded uselessly against the tiles and walls, the shattered mirror scattered over the counter and floor, numerous crimson droplets scattered among the smeared footprints. I didn't even feel the pain yet. Not from where the glass had torn, at least.

But I couldn't escape their faces. I couldn't block out their screams. I couldn't hide from their useless pleas. And I would never be able to forgive myself. And I broke. Loud sobs tore effortlessly through me. And I didn't try to hold them back. When my legs caved, I let myself fall. But he caught me. Why? After what I had done, why wouldn't he just let me fall? Because he didn't know.

"I killed them!" I had to tell him. "They were so scared, and I killed them!" I had to tell someone. "I killed" Anyone. I needed them to hate me, too.

"I know." His quiet response tore through me. In shock I looked up at him. "They made you fight. Made you kill." And I remembered. Sherlock. The man convinced he could somehow penetrate the unending web concealing Moriarty. He tolerated me for the sake of finding _him_. Anger flared through me. He didn't care what I'd done; dismissed it as further evils done by the man he was already after, so he didn't blame me.

"Alya, I need you to tell me what happened. I need to know everything so I can find him." His hands burned against me. The chilled air quickly flooded the bathroom, twisting over my bare skin until gooseflesh rose all over my body. Except where he touched me; that single band around my upper arms as he kept me from tumbling to the glass-covered floor. But I wanted to fall. I wanted to feel the shards tear through me. I wanted to watch my blood seep over the tiles and just let it end, if only that I might be free of this crippling guilt and fear and anger.

"Alya" His eyes never left mine.

"Shut up." Despite the fact that I stood completely exposed before him, his eyes never left mine. "Shut up!" And every second he stared at me, I was reminded of how truly cowardice I was. I couldn't tell him. I couldn't tell him any of it. I wouldn't survive. Reliving every word and torture and kill… I wouldn't survive.

"If you don't, their killers go free." He nearly growled, hands tightening around my arms as a sob tore through me. "Thirty-six dead woman and children were found with you. Are you going to help find the man responsible, or are you going to wait for their bodies to rot and hope the guilt decays with them?" A fresh surge of tears flooded my cheeks.

"I said 'shut up!'" I screamed, wrenching away from him, but his hold didn't waver.

"How many more do they have?" My body convulsed with every gasp, the choppy breaths reverberating as they barely wheezed past my clenched throat. "How long are you going to leave them there before you can bother yourself enough to tell me what I need to know?!" My head drooped, shoulders hunched against his hold, wide eyes staring blindly at the dark cloth of his attire. "Because that's what you're doing! The longer you let yourself cave beneath every fear and worry - the longer you let that emotion control you - the longer all those other women go through the same thing; the more women they take!" My entire body froze, waiting for him to finish, knowing precisely what he would say. "If you do nothing, you're just as responsible."

I didn't feel my muscles move. I didn't spare even a glance toward him as my body reacted. Legs kicking against the chilled floor, shoulder rolling, fingers locked in a tight fist, my arm surged around. He didn't have time to dodge. With his entire focus devoted to breaking me mentally, he spared too little attention to what I might do. Lips drawn back in a scowl, I felt my knuckles slam into his cheek.

His body crumpled under my attack, only just managing to catch himself on the far wall, hand clutching his face. Shoulders rolled forward, I look up at him with all of the hatred and fury storming through me. There was no anger in his eyes. Shock. Sadness, even, but no anger. This would have surprised me, but all I could think or see or hear was rage.

"I am _not_ your pawn." I growled. "You _will not_ speak to me like you know what I'm dealing with. You have _no idea_ what I've been through; what I've survived." His eyes hardened, but he remained silent. "You take your words and you twist and manipulate and blame it all on me. _Why_?" I spat. "Because _you're_ not good enough." Slowly, he turned to face me fully, letting his hand fall back to his side. "Moriarty is smarter than you, and you can't find him. But, just in case I have some miraculous shred of information, you think you have the right to subject me to _this_?!" The enraged words slipped almost silently from my taunt lips. "I won't risk my life by exposing myself, when you"

"You're right." He interrupted suddenly. "I _can't_ find him. I have been looking for months, but I'm no closing to catching him than I was when I started." The defeat in his eyes gave me pause. "You don't have information that would lead me straight to him; he wouldn't do anything that stupid." He paused before continuing. "But you can help bring down the slave ring." My gaze fell, a sliver of terror stealing over me as the words continued to whisper past his lips. "You can give me names, faces. And I can bring them down. And one of them will lead us to Moriarty." He was quiet a moment. I gave no reply. I couldn't. I couldn't rid myself of the panic every memory sent rushing through me.

"I believe," he started, slipping his arms out of his coat, "the best chance either of us has at surviving this is by helping each other." Eyes still trained on mine, he held the garment out to me. "I'm sorry." I held his gaze for several seconds, seeing the carefully measured notes of emotion in them. Some were honest, some fabricated.

"No you're not." I replied softly, but I accepted his offering and slipped the fabric around myself, shuddering slightly at the residual heat still radiating from the cloth. He paused, unsure how to respond to my statement. "I'm not either." I added quietly, gaze trailing to the vibrant red marking his cheek. He stood still, tense, mind working over how to respond, but, when I flashed him a tiny smirk, he let a small smile pass over his lips as well.

"Fair enough." He conceded. "But your little outburst seems to have left its mark. You really should sit down." My cheeks burned as my attention returned to the scene around us, the illustration of my lapse.

"I'm sorry about the mirror." I murmured. "I'll replace it."

"How? You've no money, and the chances of your being able to work anytime in the foreseeable future are remote and ill-advised." I looked up at him with a slight glare. "A more immediate concern would be stemming your blood loss. You'll be feeling light-headed soon." He added, taking a step toward me. My frown deepened.

"I'm fine." I mumbled, turning away.

"You're still bleeding." His voice adopted an almost foreign softness that made me still. "John's left, but I'm perfectly capable of removing the glass and bandaging your injuries." I didn't move as he spoke, attention centering on the feel of the dense fluid slowly making its way down my fingers, pooling at my feet, soaking into his coat.

"If we were injured too badly, they'd hold a knife over their lighter until it burned white. If we screamed while they cauterized it, they'd beat us until we stopped. But some of the guards liked to hear us scream, and they'd hold the knife down until we did." I didn't look at him as I said this. Only when the words hung silent and thick in the air around us did I meet his suddenly hard eyes. "How much do you really want to know?" He said nothing, but his breathes grew heavy and I saw the anger flare through him.

Before he could answer, however, my leg trembled. I tried to catch myself, but the pain that shot up my calf from the glass still embedded in my foot overcame me. Sherlock's arm darted around me, snatching my body against him before I'd fallen more than a few inches. Scowling, my muscles jerked as I sought some position that didn't hurt. Without a word, his other arm looped behind me, lifting me only a few inches to set me on the counter. I gasped at the hold, but he pulled away before I could react.

"I hardly think cauterization is necessary for a few bits of glass." He offered softly. "But they do need to be removed." He let the silence settle around us until I met his gaze. He was asking me. Expression blank, I nodded and turned my head away from him. He said nothing more as he sat on the edge of the tub, resting my foot gently on his thigh as he carefully set to work. I didn't move as the chilled metal tweezers bore into my screaming flesh. Only when he moved to my left foot did he break the silence.

"I've spoken with Detective Inspector Lestrade. He's prepared some folders for you to look through to identify anyone you recognize." My body tensed the instant he said 'Detective Inspector'. I knew he felt it, though he gave no response. "I've worked with him for several years now." he added meaningfully.

"No police." I hated how small the words sounded as they left my lips.

"Unfortunate though it is, their presence can be useful." He replied absently.

"No." I said again, only a tiny breath vocalizing my fear.

"Do you trust me?" He asked in the same, even voice, attention still fully focused on his task.

"No." I answered simply. And he froze. I didn't move as he turned his gaze to me, wouldn't let myself see the hurt almost perfectly hidden in the vibrant tide of color in his eyes. The pregnant stillness was stifling, but I wouldn't look at him; wouldn't say anything more.

"Fair enough." He finally whispered, returning his attention to the final shard in my heel. "These should heal quickly, but you should stay in bed a while regardless." He murmured as he cleaned and wrapped my feet. I gave no indication that I'd so much as heard him.

Standing, he moved to lean against the counter and reached for my hand. I gave no resistance, eyes wondering lazily over the bathroom. Wide puddles of crimson stained the floor and the liquid still filling the tub was saturated enough to completely obscure the bottom. What a well decorated scene for a horror movie.

"Alya." He called loudly. My attention instantly snapped to him, heart stuttering slightly. "Are you alright?" He spoke carefully, as though he wasn't sure I'd understand. Had he already asked me? Vaguely, I realized I was swaying. Looking purposefully away from him, I leaned back against the wall that once housed the mirror.

"I'm fine."

"Far from it, I'd say." He nearly challenged. "But, while you're still conscious, I need to reapply bandages to some of your more severe wounds." Instantly, I tensed. Brows drawn sharply down, I finally met his eyes. Before he could speak further, I let the coat fall from my shoulders, movements harsh.

"Alya." He started, but I quickly turned my back to him. Abandoning his attempt to lessen my anger, he began to clean the deepest injuries marring my form. Despite my efforts, my body flinched from him when he moved to quickly. He tried to soften his touch, but, still, a sheen of icy sweat cover my skin by the time he'd finished and my breathing was uneven and ragged, body trembling slightly as he gently returned his coat to my shoulders.

"I'll get you back to bed." He spoke quietly. I barely heard him. When his arms slipped under my knees and shoulders, I startled slightly. "You're alright." The whispered words settled gently about me, and, when he carefully pulled me against him, I didn't fight. Instead, my hand locked around his shirt, face hiding against his chest as I shook. Did he pause? If I could find the strength to look at him, what emotion would I see in those eyes? If I could just look at him…


	7. Frozen in the Doorway

I do apologize, but my schedule's been hectic to say the least. Updates are being moved to Sundays, beginning this Sunday, so you'll get another update in just a few days! For those h/c, think you'll like this one! See ya'll in a few days!

* * *

Frozen in the Doorway

* * *

The deep, earthy scent danced sweetly around me. Groggily, I opened my eyes. Tea. Another plate of biscuits and bowl of fruit had also been set upon the nightstand. I stared blindly at the platter for several seconds, unsure that I really believed it was there. Hesitantly, my hand reached out for it, almost surprised to find the smooth porcelain to be corporeal. The cream and sugar had already been mixed in – she must have been paying attention to how I'd made it earlier.

I let my eyes close as the first sip washed over my tongue. Never again would I take morning tea for granted. I felt the hot liquid seep down my throat and spread through my entire body. And a sigh whispered softly from my lips before letting my attention turn to the food she had left me.

My lips tilted up in a tiny smile as I savored every bite, every sip. I would have to thank Mrs. Hudson profusely for this. The sorrow that had entered her eyes when I last spoken with her flooded my mind as I stared into the now empty cup. There was such kindness in her… yet I was ready to take her life the instant she'd shuffled into the room. Guilt seeped through my chest. Yes, I would have to thank her.

Despite Sherlock's instructions, I swung my legs over the side of the bed. His coat was still wrapped around my body, but a set of comfortable clothing had been laid out on the chair. Gingerly testing my sore feet, I stood. They ached, but they would hold. Letting his coat slip from my shoulders, I adorned the grey sweatpants and blue shirt. They were obviously new. Had Sherlock purchased them for me, or were they from the kindly woman?

I retrieved the cup before starting toward the door. It would be greedy to request more, but I couldn't help myself, and, based on our earlier interaction, I doubted the woman would mind in the slightest. Still, I hesitated just before my hand reached the doorknob, suddenly overcome with that most basic instinct: the fear of the unknown. Anything could be beyond the door. Any_one_. It was irrational and childish. And, for just a moment, it completely immobilized me.

Jaw clenched, muscles taunt, I forced myself to move, opening the door in a too-quick motion. At the end of a short hall, a man sitting at a table turned sharply toward me. Familiar. Still, my bodyweight automatically centered over the balls of my feet, hand still clutching the knob as I stood frozen in the doorway.

"Well, good morning." He greeted, surprise clear in his voice. John. Vaguely, I remembered his name

"'Good morning'? It's well into the afternoon." Sherlock's retort quickly sounded from around the corner. John rolled his eyes slightly before motioning toward me. Seconds later, Sherlock's face came into sight, his left eye and cheek tinted a dark purple. "You're supposed to be in bed." He practically reprimanded. My lips parted absent words, mind still straining to ease the relentless pace of my frantic heart.

"Tea." I finally whispered. "I'd… hoped for some more tea." I sounded so small in that moment, but a warmth entered John's eyes that made my cheeks burn and I had to look away, anger flaring slightly.

"I think we can manage that." John replied kindly. "Would you like to sit down?" He took such care in his words; noting each inflection to eliminate any hint of an emotion that might set me off. I could feel my shoulders roll forward slightly, feel my cheeks flush with rage.

"I'd advice you accept his invitation as you're not far from falling down." His eyes remained locked on mine as he spoke, the bluntness of his words dulled by the softness with which he spoke. But there was something else. Subtle. I couldn't name what it was, but it quieted me, and I silently accepted the chair nearest the hall. Still, I found myself perched on the edge of the seat, muscles taunt.

"I was just telling Sherlock that Mary – that's my wife – insists on a home birth." He began with just a touch too much mirth. "Says because I'm a doctor, I should be able to handle it." Birth. Pregnancy. My eyes slid shut against the images, breaths wavering only slightly as I turned away from them.

"It's Mary." Sherlock replied almost impatiently as he set fresh tea in my cup and poured the steaming water over the dried leaves. "If she's made up her mind about it, you're as likely to convince her otherwise as you are to spontaneously combust." His eyes remained carefully on anything but me as he returned the kettle to the stove before settling himself in front of a large microscope. My brows drew together slightly at this realization, but I said nothing.

"I'm sure you'll make a fun midwife, John." He added almost mockingly. John's eyes narrowed

"There's a reason these things are done in hospitals, now." He argued. "It's safer." Sherlock scoffed.

"With the multitude of viruses and bacteria constantly churning about hospitals, it's a wonder the fatality rate is as low as it is – like a giant Petri dish." He mumbled absently.

"Money." I was almost as surprised as John was to hear the word quietly leave my lips, but I continued. "That's the reason it's done in hospitals now. Women are already so frightened by the idea of birth, the marketing need only claim some promise of a safer, less painful delivery to economically thrive." Both of them stared at me: John with an almost embarrassed interest, eyebrow cocked, and Sherlock with quiet curiosity, the corner of his lips pulled ever so slightly up.

"But if there's a complication"

"Most complications are caused by some fault of the staffs, or from the mother's own actions." Sherlock dismissed, returning his attention to whatever slide lay at the scrutiny of the lens. "Mary's done nothing to warrant any concern, nor does her physique hint toward problems." Gaping slightly in annoyance, John shifted slightly toward the taller man.

"If you're so sure about it, why don't you deliver her?" Sherlock nearly replied, apparently oblivious to John's sarcasm, but the doctor quickly interrupted him. "No! No, no; just…" He let out a deep breath before looking back to me.

"How are you doing, Miss Yvonne?" He asked, purposefully changing the subject. I quickly let my gaze fall to the steaming liquid.

"Fine." I answered quickly as I reached for the cream and sugar still set atop the table.

"Good." He replied warmly. "But, I want you to know, if you ever need to talk" He was cut off but another scoff from his friend. "Sherlock." He growled in warning.

"What?" Sherlock nearly barked with a chuckle, earning a deathly glare from John. "Oh, please; talking" I clearly heard the impact of John's foot slamming against Sherlock's shin, instantly silencing his words.

"As I was saying, if you"

"Thank you for the tea." I whispered quickly before turning quickly away from them.

"Alya." John called sadly as I darted down the hall. My leg failed just a meter from the door, throwing me against the wall. "Alya!" I heard John's chair legs scrape as he quickly got to his feet, and, in a panic, threw myself forward before slamming the door behind me. Breathing hard, I stood frozen leaning against the dark wood, ears pricked to listen for any approaching footsteps. But, with a flood of relief, I heard only a loud sigh before the doctor sank back into his seat.

"Sherlock." He grumbled in annoyance.

"She doesn't want you to baby her." Sherlock replied absently, attention clearly focused on the microscope. Another tense exhale sounded from John. "She doesn't want to talk about it." He added darkly.

"Of course she doesn't want to talk about it." John replied, obviously straining not to snap. "It's hard. And it hurts. But that doesn't mean it won't help her."

"Of course it won't help her." Sherlock chirped.

"There's this whole… non-physical aspect to humans that I can't help but wonder if you even know exists." If Sherlock responded, I couldn't hear it. "Maybe it wouldn't make any difference for you, but talking is what _normal_ people do to process these things." Normal? How could anyone still call me normal?

"'Process'? You think 'processing' what's happened will somehow catalyze her recovery?" It was mocking, the way he asked it. John let out a forced breath.

"Human psychology does tend toward that, yeah." He replied tersely. I couldn't help but notice my fear slowly drain away as I listened to their banter.

Speech. Conversation. I couldn't remember the last time I partook in such mundane interactions. My body slid absently to the floor as their words echoed softly around me. I almost smiled at John's unending shred of patience as he strained vainly to education a mutually uninterested and unwaveringly unaware Sherlock. Yet, I was sure some part of the man understood ever word his friend said: he was simply too efficient at manipulation not to. Was it merely for the fun of it, then, that he subjected John to his stubborn portrayal of ignorant pretense?

Leaning against the wooden door, the word beyond their words seemed to disappear. Were they at all aware of the degree to which they revealed their characters in such a simple act as speech? My mind wanted to analyze every word. To use the subtleties of their inflections to itemize potential strengths, weaknesses; anything that might give me an edge. But I didn't. As they talked, as they spoke so innocently to each other, I merely enjoyed the absence of fear.

* * *

"You want to check on her, or shall I?" John asked several minutes after his frustrated surrender.

"Mm?" Sherlock grunted as he swapped the slide.

"Alya." He nearly groaned. "You know, the tortured woman we've been speaking about for the last half-hour." When Sherlock failed to reply, John merely shook his head and started toward the detective's room.

"It's locked." Sherlock stated absently.

"What?" John asked, pausing briefly to look back.

"She locked the door when she went in there." He explained absently. "You'll have to go through the bath." John's lips tensed.

"Or, I could knock." Sherlock offered no response, so the doctor continued to the dark door.

"Alya?" He called gently. "Alya, is it alright if I come in?" He pressed after a moment's silence, but still, heard nothing from within. "Alya?" he asked uncertainly before letting his knuckles rasp softly against the wood. Albeit reluctantly, he followed Sherlock's instructions and cut through the bathroom, again pausing to knock before letting himself in when he heard no reply.

A brief flare of concern shot through him upon seeing the empty bed, but, as he eyes turned to the door, he quickly stilled. Curled into the corner, shoulders rising and falling with the rhythmic breaths of sleep, lay Alya. He couldn't help but chuckle. She looked so innocent like that – face void of the consuming fear or hate or anger she never seemed able to fully hide – as she dozed almost childlike in the corner.

"Sherlock." He called in a whisper, leaning back slightly so his voice would carry to the kitchen.

"What?" Came his automatic reply, attention instantly diverted from his task at the possible causes for John's summons. But no explanation came. Frowning, he abandoned his station and followed John's path through the bathroom before stopping beside the man. Uncertainly, he looked around for the source of obvious amusement on John's face before his gaze landed on Alya. She was surely stretching the scabs, and the position in which she'd fallen asleep would leave her muscles stiff within minutes. Yet a smile lit up John's face.

And he looked at her again, searching for the cause of his mirth. And he noted the lack of emotion on her face. Calm. For the first time since they'd found her, she looked calm. Strange. This realization gave him a sort of pause. Regardless the physical necessity for it, he found himself reluctance to rob the woman of this rare moment of serenity. Thankfully, John took the initiative.

"Alya." He called softly, crouched down a few feet away from her. "Alya." She didn't stir. How long had it been since she'd had anything but a restless night's sleep. Even with John's drugs, dreams robbed her of her breath at night and left her in a cold sweat. "Alya?"

"John." Sherlock called just as the doctor reached for her. John paused to look back at his friend, saw the unspoken words there.

"Yeah, she trusts you more, anyway." He relented, backing away, but, when his attention returned to the woman, he was surprised to see green peaking from beneath heavy lids. "Hey; we're going to get you to bed, alright?" He spoke so softly, he wondered if she'd heard him. If she had, no sliver of understanding passed over her still blank expression, but she didn't shy away as Sherlock leaned over her.

"Just hold onto me." His whisper was lost in the shuffle of his fabric, but John heard it and couldn't help but smirk. Still, he found himself await a violent outburst as Sherlock slid his arms under her knees and shoulders. But she did nothing. As the man carefully pulled the suddenly impossibly delicate woman to his chest, she seemed to melt against him, eyes sliding shut before he'd taken the first step toward the bed.

John merely watched as the poster boy for cold logic set Alya almost delicately on the mattress before pulling the covers over her. He actually pulled the covers over her… With a quiet laugh, he started back toward the kitchen.

"What?" Sherlock asked almost self-consciously, but John only shook his head.

"Alright, I'm heading home. I'll see you tomorrow." He dismissed before Sherlock could press. He _tucked her in_. Another chuckle escaped him as he closed the door behind him, leaving a frowning Sherlock standing idly beside the table, his experiments suddenly lacking interest. Had he done something wrong? His gaze travelled to his bedroom. Maybe it was somehow more humorous to his friend that he _hadn't_ done something wrong…

Dismissing it, he forced his attention back to more immediate matters: itemizing the effect parchment consistency had on the color consistency of various, popular inks.


	8. No Sanctuary Beneath the Blankets

I suppose a brief warning may be appropriate: I don't think there's much hint of the underlying plot for... a while... yeah. For those who've read my bio or other stories, this is mere a repetition of the obvious: I write because I enjoy it, thus I write what I enjoy. With Sherlock, well, I enjoy this. I started writing without hint of a plot; they were merely scenes I didn't want to forget. I welcome you only in hopes that you might enjoy them with me.

* * *

No Sanctuary Beneath the Blankets

* * *

Voices. I froze, senses perked. John's voice rumbled from the other room, too muffled for me to understand. Still, my panic receded. I was back in the bed. How? When had I fallen asleep? Vaguely, I remembered a quiet whisper, a gentle touch... Sherlock?

My gaze travelled to the door, unsurprised to find it unlocked. The rising steam from the tea cup distracted me so effortlessly, I almost chuckled. With an almost imperceptible smile, I retrieved the blessed gift, letting all thought simply fall away as I savored its warmth and rich taste. I'd meant to thank them. Yesterday, the reason for my leaving the room had been to voice my gratitude, but I'd succeeded in nothing more than a few words that could surely be perceived as rude before letting my fear chase me away. Unwarranted. My fear was unwarranted.

What had they done to earn my fear, my anger? Quite the opposite… I couldn't doubt my debt to them. If Sherlock hadn't freed me from the hospital; if John hadn't jeopardized his career to provide me with the medications I needed… I didn't want to consider where I'd be.

Why? Beyond Sherlock's vendetta against Moriarty, they had no reason to help me. Even with the man's motives, there was nothing requiring the kindness they'd showed me. I'd struck him, even; both of them. But they'd given no show of retaliation beyond patience.

With a start, I realized the now empty cup trembled in my grasp. I wanted to trust them. I wanted to let the fear and anger slip away that I might see them without the shroud of terror distorting my sight. I wanted…

What? What did I want? After I healed; after Moriarty's downfall; what did I want? What would be left? I used to think everything was so clear. I had it all planned out. How worthless those dreams seemed now. My future… What was there for me now?

Scowling, I forced the thoughts from my mind. At that moment, only one thing mattered: Moriarty. Nothing else mattered but the promise of that final kill. But I had to get through this first. I had to heal. I had to overcome this petrifying fear that so loved to watch me stagger beneath its weight.

With a deep breath, I set my feet against the smooth floor and stood. I knew what was beyond that door: the small hall paralleling the bathroom before widening into the kitchen. John was out there. Maybe Mrs. Hudson. And Sherlock. No one else. No one else… My hand touched the worn knob. Refusing to allow even the slightest hesitation, I forced my muscles to respond, slowly opening the door.

The painful racing of my heart felt almost foolish as I saw the empty chairs just down the hall. Still, I found myself centering my weight over the balls of my feet as I tread forward, cup in hand. Surely, I could at least set the dish in the sink. Just put the cup in the sink.

I paid no immediate attention to the light flicker from the other room, dismissing it to be nothing more than a television. But, my entire body suddenly tensed, unaware of the cup crashing to the floor; each muscle locked against the other. The hair stood on-end all over my body. That song… Was I trembling as my body jerked from each tiny gasp?

"Alya?"

That song… _It starts in my toes, makes me crinkle my nose_… They had come from nowhere. _Wherever it goes, I always know…_ And they took me, and…

"Sherlock!"

_That you make me smile, please stay for a while now…_ And they laughed. As they hurt me, as I begged them to let me go, they laughed.

"Alya?" A sliver of recognition, but, almost instantly, it was forgotten. _Just take your time, wherever you go_... "What happened?" Clinical. He sounded so clinical as he asked it. _He_ hadn't spoken like that. _He_ practically sang as he asked me questions for which I had no answer.

"Nothing, just-" Something touched my shoulder. I couldn't see what it was. Beyond the images and sounds and panic, I couldn't see what it was, but I didn't need to.

"No!" Had the shout come from my lips? My arms were already locked around my head – how long had I stood like that? – but, the instant I felt that touch, I flung myself back, slamming into the molding of a doorframe.

"_It's not a difficult request,"_ My teeth ground together as I tried to silence the whimpers – failed. _"Just tell me everything you know about Sherlock Holmes."_ Wide eyes stared blindly ahead of me. _The rain is falling on my window pane._ Those nearly black eyes staring at me with contemptuous humor. _But we are hiding in a safer place._ And still, that song played.

"Alya!" My fist lashed out. There was no forethought. There was only fear. I was afraid and someone had shouted. I barely registered the jolt ripple up my arm. But I heard the sudden, pained cough as my knuckles struck flesh.

"Sherlock!" The man's shout echoed through my entire being. I knew that name. Before I could begin to remember, a hand clasped around my wrist. Holding me. Restraining me. _Hurting me… and they'd laugh._

"No, John!" The order came too late. With a panicked cry, my body reacted. Wild, deadly instinct; nothing more, nothing less. I spun my arm, hindering his balance, if only slightly, resulting in only a minor shift – trained, else his hold would have failed entirely. My left hand, already clenched into a tight fist, flew towards him. Almost casually, he drew his other arm up to steer the blow harmlessly to the side.

"Wait, Alya!" I didn't understand what my assailant tried to say. Couldn't waste time for thought. Fight! Before they can hurt you… Tears slipped down my cheeks as I kicked my leg up toward him. With his left hand still grasping my wrist, he couldn't avoid it and the blow robbed him of air in a painful cough. Should have fallen to his knees, but he didn't… Still, it would slow him. Keeping my weight balanced on the same leg, I withdrew my kick quickly and slammed my heel into his chest before he could recover, launching him back onto the hard floor and freeing me from him.

Something passed over his face. Resolution. I knew that look. Panic. I felt a fresh surge of panic storm through me as he gathered himself. End it. Now!

"Stop!" Instantly, I froze. The other man had thrown himself between me and the one still lying prone on the ground. And I couldn't move. Those eyes. That impossible dance of the lightest blues and greens with that single island of hazel. With my fist a hair's breadth from his jaw, I was frozen. Trembling. My eyes darted over his too-familiar face, locking on the already bleeding cut on his left cheek. I knew this man. I knew him and…

Breathes ragged, I drew my hand toward me; saw the smear of red over the quaking knuckles. Horrified, I looked back into those eyes, jaw hanging open in a silent apology I still couldn't understand; that I knew would never be enough.

"It's alright." He murmured quietly. It wasn't forgiveness – he seemed perfectly unaware of the injury I'd given him – it was reassurance. Fresh tears spilled down my cheeks as I shook my head, nearly cowering away from him. "You're alright." He said again, in that same comforting calm. Slowly, I pulled my hands back, locking them to my chest as I sank into myself. To my horror, a sob shook my already pathetic frame, and my gaze dropped to the floor in shame. Gently, he wrapped an arm around my shoulders, and I couldn't pull away.

"You're alright." Those words washed through my hair and all I could do was cry. The song had long-since ended, but I couldn't shake the terror it left me with. And I clung to him. In silence, I clung to him as I cried, desperately fighting to regain some shred of control over my still panicked mind.

"I'm sorry!" It was almost a yelp, lost amidst the folds of his shirt. His hold tightened, but, before he could speak, I shied away from him. I'd hurt them.

"Alya." He called quietly. Desperately, I shook my head.

"No… No, let me go!" I pleaded, wrenching myself from his grasp. He said nothing more as I raced into the familiar bedroom and slammed the door shut, hands straining against the wood as though _he_ might try to force his way through at any moment. And I sobbed. I hurt them. In a fit of madness, I'd lashed out blindly. They had helped me, and I was too broken to be anything but a danger to them. Still, I wouldn't leave. Because I was a coward, too afraid to risk losing myself in the infinite dangers of wandering the world alone, I wouldn't leave. And so I sobbed against the door I could only pray might keep them safe from me.

For a while, they listened in silence to her heart-wrenching sobs before Sherlock turned to his friend and offer him a hand. John almost reluctantly took it, grimacing as he got to his feet.

"Alright?" Sherlock asked without meeting the doctor's gaze.

"Yeah." Came his automated response, eyes locked on the door. "I don't know that there's anything we can do for her." John nearly whispered.

"Oh, come now, John. You know precisely the psychological symptoms she's displaying. She merely has different triggers." The detective replied tactlessly.

"Well, I didn't try to kill people." John stated defensively.

"Different causes, different results." He replied wistfully. "They may have been entirely different circumstances, but you both were at war." The doctor paused, never ceased to be amazed at the insight his friend could conjure. Still, the woman was unstable.

"Shall we put that on our gravestones, then?" He retorted.

"She won't hurt me." Sherlock mumbled absently. "Intentionally." He quickly added at John's skeptical expression.

"What?" He nearly barked. "Tell me you don't think she's fallen for you!" Sherlock's face instantly pulled up in an almost pained grimace as he met John's eyes with a look bordering contempt.

"She knows I want Moriarty as badly as she does." He correctly impatiently. "Obviously." He added for good measure.

"Has she said anything about what he has to do with all this?" John asked.

"He's the reason she was in that ring. He sold her to them." Sherlock muttered, turning his attention back to the now quiet door to his room. Had she moved? Fallen asleep? Or had she heard him say the man's name and gone silent to listen?

"Why?" The doctor asked. Sherlock said nothing a while, still nearly disgusted with the answer.

"I don't know."

"Well, I doubt she'll be coming out of there for a while." John resigned. "Might as well restock." Sherlock frowned.

"You want to leave her? Alone?" He asked skeptically.

"_She_ wants to be left alone." He clarified. "Mrs. Hudson will give us a ring if anything happens." Sherlock started to object, but John quickly interrupted him. "Store, now!"

"Ice cream." John stated suddenly.

"What?" Sherlock asked after a brief hesitation.

"Ice cream." He said again without any further explanation before striding purposefully toward the columns of freezers. The detective merely watched him in confusion a moment before trailing after him.

"When have you ever wanted ice cream?" He questioned upon catching up.

"It's not for me." John retorted. "Obviously." He added, mockingly, allowing himself a minute to bask in the detective's rare moment of ignorance. "It's for Alya." He finally said, but this offered nothing in the way of a satiating the man's perplexity. "It's called comfort food."

"You understand 'comfort food' has no valid medicinal qualities." Sherlock informed.

"Yes it does." John replied absently, eyes glancing over the various flavors.

"Any appearance of relief is nothing more than the placebo effect." He continued.

"No it's not." John said in the same uninterested tone before he retrieved a half-gallon jug and proceeded to the cash register.


End file.
